by SL Hulen
“Password, please.”
“How am I supposed to know? You change it every week.”
“These days, no amount of security is enough,” the voice stated. “My policy allows no exception, but I’ll give you a clue; a famous outlaw is buried in the old cemetery near the freeway. Who is he?”
“Easy; John Wesley Hardin. Now let us in.”
“Wrong!” The voice sounded ecstatic. “Need another clue?”
“I have a hot cinnamon roll with your name on it,” Victoria countered. “If you don’t hurry—”
“The body was later dug up and reburied.” Desperation could now be detected in the voice.
“In that case, it’s Pancho Villa. Maybe I didn’t bring you anything after all.”
There was the sound of a motor, and the metal door rolled up to reveal Elias, unshaved and happy at the prospect of a treat. The knees of his corduroy pants were muddy, and a feather duster stuck out from the pouch of his denim apron. “Look who’s full of beans and tricks today!” Elias kissed her forehead, and then took Khara’s hands. “Good morning, mijita. You won’t mind if I call you that since you two are practically glued together these days.”
He planted a kiss on her cheek; she lowered her eyes, seemingly delighted by the brush of his mustache. Handing him the coffee, Victoria groaned. “Another woman succumbs to the charms of Elias Barrón de Zarco. Mind if I show her around? We’ve got a bet to settle.”
Removing the red dustcloth from his apron, Elias snapped it high in the air, brandishing it like a matador’s muleta, giving them permission to pass. He then excused himself and headed toward his office. “I have a few more pieces of this exhibition to inventory. I must also have a look at the retablo of San Rafael; his poor fish needs restoration. I’ll turn on the exhibit lighting. It’s much more entertaining with the proper atmosphere.”
“Thanks,” Victoria called back to him. “We won’t be long.” It didn’t surprise her that her uncle did not answer; he was in a world to himself.
Her private visits—she came only when the museum was closed—always began in the meticulously restored sitting room at the front of the 1910 mansion. There, portraits from the Italian Renaissance hung on white marble walls, vying for her attention. When she let her imagination wander, it conjured up the image of a gentleman enjoying afternoon tea with his wife on the blue-silk, French Provincial sofa.
Khara, on the other hand, couldn’t have been less interested in the furnishings. She headed straight for the portraits, stepping over the velvet ropes. “Who are they?”
“People from long ago.” Pausing for a moment, she asked, “Is this place a tomb? Are these your ancestors? What’s a retablo?”
Victoria laughed. “A retablo is a religious painting, usually done on wood. And no, there are no bodies here, only works of art.”
“They are glorious.” Khara pushed her face close to a painting, breathing in the musty, leathery smell of old lacquer and paint.
Victoria walked to the bottom of the sweeping staircase and motioned to Khara. “What we’re looking for is up here.”
The gleaming parquet floor at the top of the stairs led to a pair of twelve-foot pillars on which an immense limestone slab was balanced solidly. This replicated doorway marked the “Enduring Egypt” section of the museum. An ancient melody of strings, flutes, and cymbals played, inviting them to step into the past.
“We need more light.” Victoria flipped the switch that would turn spotlights on several featured pieces.
When she returned, Khara had rested her head against one of the columns as though it were the shoulder of a long-lost friend. The entire floor smelled of aged paper and eons of dust. “At last,” she whispered, her eyes moist, “something familiar.”
Victoria fought her softening heart. “Let’s start over there.”
Khara’s movement through the room was slow until several sheets of papyrus, encased in glass, caught her attention. “These are not the works of artists,” she declared. “This one is nothing more than an inventory of foodstuffs for a banquet.”
“How do you know?” Khara rolled her eyes. “I can read. Not so well in your language, but most certainly in my own.”
“So this is how it’s going to go?”
“And this is nothing more than a love letter from a wife to her army-lieutenant husband,” she said with authority. “She writes that each day he’s away, the sun fades a little in the sky. Beautiful, yes, but nothing compared to the portraits below. Perhaps over here…” She’d reached a statue of a man, sitting with a tablet in his lap, a diligent expression on his face. “A scribe,” she dismissed it.
“But Khara, you’re missing the most important part. Take a look at when he lived—almost three thousand years ago.” Victoria shook her head in frustration. “I suppose you also know what this one says?” One of the mounted papyri had no tag or details of its provenance. Let her explain this one, she thought.
“It’s a list.” “I can see that.”
“There are fifteen words on the list, are there not?”
“So?”
“To an Egyptian, sand is elemental; no single word can encompass its many qualities. These are some of the most widely used versions.”
“Oh.” This was going to be more difficult than she’d thought. Victoria watched Khara busy herself among the statuary, oohing and aahing now and then—not exactly the reaction she’d hoped for. She was examining the cartouche on an elegantly carved alabaster vase when something caught her eye and she froze.
“In that box over there,” Khara gasped, trembling. “What is it?” She turned away from the acrylic case, ashen-faced, as though she’d seen the specter of her own death.
“That? It’s a reproduction of the Sphinx.”
“Why has the Great One been defaced?” She asked, eyes wide, voice quivering. She tried to scramble away from the case, but slipped on the polished wood floor. The ground had seemingly turned to ice.
“It’s been in that condition for centuries. What’s wrong?”
Khara collapsed.
Dropping to her knees, Victoria grabbed her shoulders. “Talk to me! What’s happened?”
She shuddered, unable to speak. Victoria tried lifting her, but it was useless. “Please, tell me what’s wrong. I don’t understand…”
Footsteps approached, and she was grateful to see Elias moving quickly toward them. He knelt at Khara’s side. The look of bewilderment Khara cast upon him was one Victoria would never forget.
“How many years has the Great One rested in the sand?” When neither answered, she shrieked, “How many?”
“No one is sure,” Elias responded. “The best estimates say that Pharaoh Khafre of the Fourth Dynasty had it commissioned.”
“Please, Uncle, how many years ago?”
“Approximately 4,500, if archaeologists have the correct dynasty. Why?”
“Is there another such as this? Brightly painted, with the golden ceremonial beard of a pharaoh?”
“Of the seven wonders of the ancient world,” Victoria began, “only the Great Sphinx has survived. There is no other.”
“The ancient world?” Tears streamed down Khara’s face. All along, Victoria had sensed something dreadfully wrong with the young woman’s situation and yet she had dismissed what she felt to be the truth; it was simply too impossible to believe. Elias lifted Khara’s limp body from the floor.
“What has happened, chiquina? Only a minute ago you were happy. Why are you so upset?”
Tenderly, Elias carried Khara to a viewing bench and sat her down. Her eyes were cloudy. “Khara, are you all right?”
There was no response.
“Stay with her,” Elias told Victoria and dashed for the stairs.
No wonder she claimed never to have seen a book before, and was astounded by something as simple as a paper cup.
Victoria took his place on the bench. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were bluffing, that you’d made the whole thing up. But the
re’s got to be a more logical explanation. There has to be.”
Making no move to wipe the fresh tears that fell, Khara moaned, “Menefra’s persimmon has poisoned my mind.”
Elias returned with a heavy blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders, his expression more serious than Victoria had ever seen it. “I need to know what is happening here.”
“Remember Robert’s comments about Khara’s language? How he thought it was extinct?”
“What I remember is that he emphasized that he wasn’t certain, or even an authority.”
“The problem with her language,” Victoria began, “is that Khara is not from this time.” She waited for her words to sink in. Her uncle’s jaw dropped. “That’s your explanation for her behavior? What nonsense! You sound like that ridiculous television series your aunt watches.”
She put a hand on his arm. “The more time I spend with her, the more apparent it is. She’s extremely bright, and yet she lacks the most basic knowledge of anything modern.” Victoria squeezed Khara’s hand and urged, “Take some deep breaths.”
The tightness around her uncle’s mouth remained. “The same could be said of many third world nations. To jump to such a conclusion—”
“You heard her ask why the Sphinx doesn’t have a beard and isn’t painted anymore.”
“Bah!” Bells rang the noon hour, and a glimmer of hope shone in her uncle’s eyes. “Your aunt will be here any minute. She’ll know what to do.”
“No! Marta can’t know anything about this!” Elias ran his hand through his hair. “You’re right.”
She ran. By the time she’d brought the car to the back door, Elias was waiting with Khara, still wrapped in the blanket.
“I’ll take her from here,” Victoria said, opening the passenger door and placing the bundled Khara inside. “I need to get her home.”
Chapter Ten Victoria
Victoria helped Khara onto the bed. “Good cat,” she said to Dante, who had materialized. “Stay with her while I make some tea.”
Soon, with a steaming mug in her hands and Dante in her lap, Khara emerged from her shroud of disbelief.
“Everyone and everything I have ever known has been swallowed by the ages,” she acknowledged as she stared past Victoria. “In vain, I struggled to understand how a civilization as great as this one could have remained unknown to us. Now it makes sense. Did Nandor know? Of course, he must have. He tried to warn me, though at the time I could not fully realize the meaning of his words.” After a moment she asked, “Have there been others like me?”
“Time-travelers? Victoria shook her head. “None that I know of. In this day and age, something like that could never be kept secret.”
“This is an offense to the gods,” Khara muttered, as if alone. “How did I dishonor them?”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Now I understand why everything here is so unfamiliar.” Her voice forced Victoria to restrain her own tears. “This,” she said, gesturing to the face of the clock radio on the nightstand, “and even this insignificant thing,” she lifted the teabag from the mug, “is a wonder.”
“Do you have any idea how it happened? What’s the last thing you remember?”
“I thought my time on earth was over,” she whispered. “We can talk about this later. Right now you need some rest—”
“If you insist, though it will not help with what I must do.”
“What might that be?” Victoria asked nervously. “I cannot stay here. If it was possible to send me here, a way back must exist. I will plead with the gods for forgiveness, pray for their guidance.”
She fell into Victoria’s arms, her cries expressing the despair of a soul mistreated and clinging desperately to a lifeline. Somewhere on the shelves upstairs was a compendium of world religions. After retrieving it, Victoria sat at the edge of the bed. “If nothing else, it’s a place to start.” She turned the book so Khara could see the title. “There’s a chart of Egyptian Dynasties. Your father is really the pharaoh?”
“He is—was. Pepy II, pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt.”
“Who ruled Egypt before your father? Using this chart of dynasties,” Victoria explained, ripping pages from the book, “we should be able to narrow down your place in history.” She held the chart out with a last bit of hope that Khara’s story was the result of something—anything—else. “Do you know his predecessor?”
“As Elias is your uncle, he was mine. Sadly, his life was cut short. His name was Merenre.” While Victoria hunted for the information among a list of nearly identical names, she inquired nervously. “Approximately how long was his reign?”
“Five years and twenty days. The official record says he died in his sleep.” Locating the name under a heading marked “Sixth Dynasty,” Victoria felt the walls closing in. That was over four thousand years ago! She cleared her throat. “Before him, it seems there was another short reign.” A faint smile appeared on Khara’s face but, too quickly, faded.
“I understand the necessity of this. Before Merenre was the father of my father—Pepy the First.”
Sweat broke out on Victoria’s forehead. “Perhaps you’re confused. The outline shows a different name.”
“There is no confusion. He was an arrogant man and often used only his divine title. Look for the name of Meryre. So that I may finally convince you, he reigned for fifty and one years, passing the throne and his name to my father at the time of his death. Since he was but a child, my uncle was allowed to stand in father’s place until he reached a suitable age. Shall I continue?”
“I’m sorry; it’s just that whole thing seems so impossible.” A shiver trickled down her spine as she continued reading. “Look! Right after your father’s reign, there is a short interval—and Khara, it’s blank!”
“Blank? What is ‘blank’?” She leaned forward, straining to see the pages. “It says here that the ruler during this period has never been accounted for. There is no information.”
“Is not the name of my sister Menefra listed?”
“The space is empty.” Noticing a notation at the bottom of the page, Victoria read, “‘After the half-century-long, prosperous reign of Pepy II, Egypt endured a period of panic and unrest. This time is notoriously recognized as the period of ‘Seventy Rulers in Seventy Days.’” Victoria grabbed a pen and wrote boldly, with an arrow, “Khara belongs here.”
Observing Victoria warily in the suffocating silence that followed, Khara spoke softly. “Perhaps now you may begin to more fully understand my predicament.” She took the pages from Victoria and looked at them. “At first, I believed the gods had banished me. But why me? I am not the one who committed murder.”
“Murder?” Her eyes had a faraway look. “Oh, Nandor, what have you done?
Though the attorney in her demanded more details, Victoria did not press; instead, she kicked off her flats and climbed into bed. “Marta says everything happens for a reason.” The answer was a long sigh.
“I’ll help you in any way I can, Khara. Together we’ll figure something out.”
But where would they start? Knowing where in time Khara had come from seemed utterly useless. The only logical thing to do was to convince her to stay. The transition, although difficult, was not impossible. A resilient heart can overcome almost anything, she knew—from experience.
Chapter Eleven Victoria
At the time of her birth, a tenacious battle for an emerging middle class raged throughout Mexico, but nowhere more fiercely than along the US border. Rather than taking up arms, the poor, no longer content to live in cardboard shacks without running water, took to the factories.
Though his mother had wanted him to be a priest, Victoria’s father blended the work ethic of the impoverished with a wealthy man’s knowledge of social graces. Joaquín Barrón rose quickly, becoming “el gerente” of a bottling company that made apple soda. Her mother Estima was the more educated of the two, an artistic woman who had aspired to be a ballerina u
ntil an earnest young man invited her to a political rally and filled her head with dreams of a different sort.
Joaquín wasn’t ashamed of the opportunities they had; his great passion lay in wanting them for everyone. His mother, however, thought living so close to the United States had infected his brain with dangerous levels of self-determination. Mexico was still Mexico, and the rich were not apt to take kindly to change driven from beneath them.
Victoria’s life as the adored daughter of upwardly mobile parents changed forever the night her father helped a friend, whose only crime had been to print pamphlets the federales deemed accusatory, flee Mexico.
At least five families had gathered that night. Victoria was happy for a break from her homework so she could play with Margarita Modesto, a quiet girl with a heart-shaped face who, like her, was eight years old. Throughout the evening they played tag, oblivious to the mustached men watching through binoculars.
They’d eaten tacos stuffed with barbecued pork for dinner, and Mamá had even let her have an orange soda. At first, she didn’t notice the Modesto family’s quiet departure. When she did, she followed, hoping to convince Margarita’s mother to let her stay a while longer. Victoria watched them climb into tubes and push their way into the darkness.
They were going to ride the river in the moonlight without her.
There was one shrunken, patched-up tube left. Victoria climbed in and pushed away from the bank. “Margarita!” she called, “wait for me!”
The river was happy to take her toward them. The moon was full, and as she leaned back to stare at it, she felt so very small.
Suddenly, an accusing beam of light engulfed her. At that instant Victoria heard her mother scream, “Dìos mìo, Joaquín, she’s in the water!
“Don’t move!” a voice ordered through a bullhorn. “You are all under arrest!”
That’s when Margarita, who was some distance ahead with her mother, looked back and yelled, “Go back! You can’t come with us! Look, your father’s coming for you.”
